


You Live

by AeeDee



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Dark, Drabble, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Incest, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:07:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AeeDee/pseuds/AeeDee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A quiet contemplation on Pietro and Wanda's relationship. If you squint it almost looks platonic, but it exists in the gray area.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Live

You’re fifteen and he’s asking you if this is all there is. If it gets any better. You don’t know what he means, until much later.  
  
There’s an aching in your chest but it doesn’t have a name. It’s there, and it subsides. Returns and burns again. You can’t tell if it’s better or worse when he holds your hand but at least it’s not the same painful sensation forever extended.  
  
The roof caved in and the thick fog of ash and the scent of blood and decay is overwhelming, but he holds your hand. “We’re going to die,” you tell him. “Not yet,” he holds your hand, holds it tighter and says it again.  
  
When they pull you from the rocks and metal and the collapsed ground the first thing he does is to kiss you on the forehead, pulls you close. You know things will never be the same again, but you’re alive, he’s alive. You live again.  
  
Grief gives way to confusion, gives way to rage. The world is a dark and difficult place and you trade words of revolution as you find each other’s souls in the struggle and the pain. He says passionate things, yells them at the top of his lungs in the middle of a mob and you stand beside him and wonder if it could always be this way.  
  
You never admire him more than when he pulls you from the wreckage of a protest gone sour; he lifts you out of the furious crowd with strong arms that won’t let you fall back into them. The same hands he uses to knock back your enemies are the same ones he’ll use to gently wipe the blood off your face. His jacket wrapped around your shoulders and it’s comforting because it feels like him, feels safe.  
  
The days apart are the most difficult, but you tell each other it’s essential. After the days apart, you join again. You always will. Fleeting moments of bliss, of silence inside your mind because he’s warm, he’s safe. He’s reassuring and you lean on him, sometimes for hours before it’s back to work, back to the routine of sacrifice and training and labor and heartache.  
  
“I miss them,” he finally admits. “But you have me,” you tell him. He smiles and tugs at your hand, as if captivated by your fingers and the feel of your open palm.  
  
Anger is like a maze. The more you struggle, the more it winds you deeper.  
  
You’re pressing your hands together and you don’t know if you’re ever stared this intently at another human being. He ventures a guess, “you’re nervous.” You stick your tongue out, just for an instant, “you are,” but your light-hearted tone doesn’t convince him. He knows you too well. He intertwines your fingers and pulls you closer and you drift, you drift back into him.  
  
Anger is blinding; it stifles, it suffocates.  
  
The morning before he dies, you kiss him one last time. Your attempt was something chaste, something pure. A kiss pressed to the side of his face and he almost laughs. Runs his fingers through your hair and kisses you on the mouth. You knew he would.  
  
Somewhere in the distance there’s noise and chaos and you’re so frightened you’re shaking. But he’s warm and he’s safe and he’s holding you so tightly for just a moment. He’s overwhelming and he’s so strong before he lets go.  
  
“Don’t cause too much trouble,” you tell him. “When have I ever,” he says.  
  
But what you really meant was, _Don’t get hurt_ , and each soft gesture and kiss you shared has been a silent prayer for him not to die.  
  
You’re fifteen and he asks if it gets any better, if it’ll always hurt this much. The answer, now that you finally understand, is _no_. He will never hurt as much as he did then. He will never.  
  
He will never-  
  
Soldier on. You carry his soul, his memory, his sins with your rage.  
  
But more importantly,  
  
Even now that you’re alone, his love carries you.


End file.
